


Remember the Maid

by hubblegleeflower



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash February, TAB Universe, Victorian Femslash, Victorian Molly Hooper, sherlock femslash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 16:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6122290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miss Hooper and Miss Musgrave are girls together at school, ambitious and studious for all their mothers' ulterior motives for bothering to educate them. Their intimate friendship grows quickly, despite all the plans being made for them.<br/>There is much more to their story than a bad ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember the Maid

They had been girls at school together.

Miss Hooper’s mother was of the opinion that no young lady could be effective as a wife and mother without the proper cultivation of her intellect, while Miss Musgrave’s mother believed that attending school with young ladies of quality would afford her daughter more exposure to eligible young men.

The two young ladies had their own reasons for being suitably obedient to their parents’ wishes and diligent in their studies, had anyone asked them. No one did.

They were both competent scholars, with Miss Hooper taking the lead in Mathematics and Biology, and Miss Musgrave excelling her in Latin and Greek.

There was no shared adversity that drove them together. Miss Musgrave happened to smile at Miss Hooper as they set to translating a passage from Plato, on a day when Miss Hooper - always quite serious - was rather in need of a smile.

Miss Hooper, not expecting friendliness in the face of her own reserve, merely stared. Shortly afterwards, though, Miss Musgrave glanced at Miss Hooper’s page and murmured a correction. When Miss Hooper looked up, the other girl smiled again. It seemed that the twitch at the corner of Miss Hooper’s stern face was not lost on her.

After that, they looked for reasons to address one another. Miss Hooper remained quite reserved at first, although she frequently sought excuses to encounter the taller girl. Miss Musgrave, for her part, seemed to welcome Miss Hooper’s presence, always with her smile at the ready.

“Miss Musgrave, I should be grateful if you could look over my Virgil before tomorrow’s lesson, if you would be so kind.”

“Not at all, I should be happy to.” And that smile, always. Directly into Miss Hooper’s eyes.

Miss Hooper was to learn quickly that Miss Musgrave’s smile could twist in an instant, that there was a glint of mischief, or at least humour, in her eyes that was never far from the surface, if one knew where to look. Inexplicably, the other girls did not seem to, nor the teachers.

Miss Hooper could not fathom their blindness. She had known Miss Musgrave less than a term, and she knew _precisely_ what signs to look for. She was at once appalled at the lack of apprehension among her classmates, and secretly delighted that the smile, that slow, glinting spread of humour, seemed (by default, of course) to be hers alone.

She cherished it.

In that easy intimacy that is the way of young girls, within a month they were _Molly_ and _Emelia_ , and were seldom seen apart during school hours. Indeed, both of their mothers having determined the friendship to be advantageous (in terms of Mr. Hooper’s ample connections and Miss Musgrave’s very eligible older brother), they were frequently together outside of school as well.

By the time the first holidays arrived, they were such fixtures in one another’s homes that they spent precisely half of the time at the Musgraves’ residence and half at the Hoopers’, separating only for Christmas Day festivities that required their attendance with their own families. They even sat together at Christmas services.

“I well remember being that age,” Mrs. Musgrave remarked to Mrs. Hooper one evening. The two matrons would often exchange indulgent glances over the two young ladies who sat with their heads bent together, speaking low and privately. “I was just the same with my intimate friends.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Hooper agreed fondly. “Our heads were full of fancies, and we were never at a loss for conversation. Who can remember what we talked about?”

“Young men, on the whole.” Mrs. Musgrave laughed. “What ideas we had about our future husbands! Between that and dresses and hair arrangements, we were quite occupied!”

The young ladies, for their part, cared little for whatever their mothers imagined for them, or about them. It might have surprised the older women to discover that future husbands occupied only the most minor position in the girls’ discussions.

This was part of why they were not quite “the thing” at school, and cleaved all the more firmly to one another as the months passed. None of the other girls was actually unkind; they were, on the contrary, quite inviting. Miss Hooper and Miss Musgrave were frequently asked to attend social teas, or call on their classmates, or join study groups formed by the more serious scholars of their acquaintance. They accepted a reasonable number of these invitations and (partly at their mothers’ insistence) issued their own as well. Miss Hooper, with her shy reserve and tendency towards being perhaps over solemn, was not entirely comfortable at large gatherings. Miss Musgrave, with her quick wit and ready smile, was more at ease, but she was always prepared to decline an invitation, or leave early, if her friend seemed too exhausted, particularly when the conversation was dull. (Miss Musgrave was quick to agree with Miss Hooper that the never ending focus on young men and future husbands was quite taxing.)

Miss Hooper had very particular, very specifc plans for her future, and none of them included a husband. Miss Musgrave was of a more impetuous bent, and did not object to a husband, provided he met certain criteria.

“So long as he’s not _boring_ , Molly. Staid, and respectable, and serious, like…”

“Like me?” The tilt of Molly’s chin showed she had not taken offense.

“Not at all like you, darling. You may be serious, but you are much, much less respectable than people imagine, and you are _never_ boring.” Emelia put down her hairbrush and threw her arms around her friend’s neck, planting a kiss on her cheek. “I should be more than happy to find a husband like you.”

The girls were in Emelia’s bedroom, preparing to sleep. It was half-term, and as they had several essays and tasks to complete before classes resumed, they had determined that their collaboration would be much facilitated were they to stay together for the whole holiday. And indeed, during the day their studies proceeded apace. In the evenings, however, and at night, they could rest, and let their minds go slightly slack, and Emelia could tease Molly about whatever she had a mind to.

Tonight it was husbands. Not an accustomed topic for them, but it was serving her purpose admirably tonight, which was to provoke her friend.

“It’s only that I don’t wish to leave my father’s house on my wedding day and move into a house across the street, and never go anywhere else in my entire life. Mamma is concerned about finding someone _established_ and proper, someone whose credentials go back thousands of years and whose back could not unbend enough for him to tie his own boots. I cannot imagine a fate worse than being attached to such a man.”

Molly smiled, holding her own back straight as she wound her hair into a braid for sleeping. “Well? And you’d like - what - a pirate?”

“An honourable one, why not? For the travel, of course.” Emelia flounced onto the end of bed, her nightdress ballooning around her as she gathered in her long limbs.

“Of course.” Molly, at the vanity, watched as Emelia rearranged herself. The girl was rarely still, except when she was studying. Molly found the ceaseless movement almost hypnotic.

“Or a captain in the merchant marine - less keelhauling, I should think, and limited plank-walking. And the men might have all their own limbs, and some of their own teeth.” She considered a moment. “Fewer parrots, though. Perhaps a pirate _would_ be best.”

“Your mother would have vapours.”

“She would certainly vapourise altogether.” Emelia did not look at all put off by the thought. “A strange and disreputable man. On the whole, though, it would be better if _you_ could steal us a ship, dear. Mamma approves of you. We could see the world together.”

“When I am a doctor, I shall travel. Not before.” Molly finished her braid and moved to the washstand. Emelia knew her plans well by now.

“Yes, dear, but I shan’t have that kind of freedom. I need to be sensible.”

“Sensible in planning for your life of intrigue and adventure?” Molly dried her face on the flannel and climbed into bed.

Emelia joined her, grinning. “Just so.” She turned out the lamp so that the only light in the room was from the gas lamps in the street, filtering through the gauzy curtains. She paused, and Molly could hear her hesitation.

“What is it, dear?” Molly frowned in the darkness. Emelia always said whatever she was thinking, at least to Molly. “What is it you have to tell me?”

“Well,” she hemmed, with an uncertain pause, “It’s not decided…”

“What isn’t?” Molly lifted her head and rested her chin in her hand. She could make out her friend’s outline on the other pillow, and the dark cloud of her hair, but she could not read her face. “You’d best just tell me.”

“You know that Thomas has plans to go to Boston, to take up a position with our uncle’s shipping company.”

“Yes. And my mother had such hopes for him.”

“Oh, darling, I love him dearly, but Thomas would bore you to death within a year of marriage. He is not in possession of a single particle of fun.”

“Because you took them all.” Her free hand crept over to Emelia’s side of the bed, coming to rest on her friend’s forearm where it lay tucked up beneath the pillow.

Emelia bent and kissed her hand. “Flatterer. But Molly, listen. Uncle James has written to Papa, and he has put it to Mamma, and they have discussed it with me…”

“My dearest, you will drive me mad. Discussed _what?_ What did your uncle write your father about?”

Emelia took a breath, and rested her cheek on the back of Molly’s hand. Even in the darkness, Molly could see the shine in her friend’s dark eyes. “To suggest that when Robert goes, that I might go with him.”

There was an odd feeling in Molly’s lungs, as if the air had rushed out of them without her troubling to actually breathe it out. It was difficult, for a moment, to draw it back in. It was difficult, therefore, to speak.

“Well, darling? Have you nothing to say? Can’t you just imagine it?”

“You’re going...to Boston.”

“Well, as I said, it’s not decided. But Uncle did make a persuasive case. I believe they’re all hoping I’ll make a connection there - Uncle’s been so prosperous, and society there is quite well-established.”

“In Boston.”

“ _Yes_ , dear. In Boston.”

Molly cleared her throat. She wanted to withdraw her hand from Emelia’s arm, wanted to turn over in the bed, turn her back to her friend, and put an end to the whole discussion. She did not, however. To do so would make it seem that she was angry or upset, and she had no reason to be either of those things.

“Well, that is exciting, there’s no doubt about that.” There, that sounded all right. It was only right that she should take an interest - this was precisely the kind of adventure Emelia had been longing for. “And you? Do you have the same hope?” Taking an interest.

“Oh, you know me. I’m sure there must be _some_ pirates amongst the Dull Responsibles over there. And I needn’t take up with an American, after all. There are plenty of Londoners putting in some time for a year or two.”

“So I could hope to see you again, in that case.” She did not think her voice wavered. “Perhaps even attend your wedding.”

There was the briefest pause, where Emilia did (for once) seem to go very still under her hand. After a moment, she said, “Well, it is not decided. And I am some years away from marriage, in any case.”

“Yes.” It was not so many years as that, many of the young ladies in the higher classes were engaged or even married before they finished their studies, and it was not unheard-of for the younger girls either. Still, Molly allowed herself to be deflected. “At any rate, darling, it is terribly exciting. I’m very pleased for you.”

They settled in to sleep, Molly’s hand still resting on Emelia’s arm. Molly lay awake for some time after her friend’s breathing had steadied.

***

Contrary to Emelia’s reassurances, plans for her departure were finalised quite soon after the girls first spoke of it. She was to finish the term, as preparations for Robert’s journey required some time, but by the spring it had been determined that Emelia would be leaving for Boston in August, with her brother as a chaperone, to stay with her uncle and aunt for an undetermined amount of time.

Emelia broke the news to Molly at school. She said airily, it as though it were nothing, though she chose a time and place where discussion would by necessity be severely curtailed.

“What will you do there?” Molly wondered. _What shall I do here?_

“Oh, you know, of course, dear. Mamma has great hopes that I shall learn more about the proper management of a household, and work on my accomplishments.” She grinned, but Molly was not fooled. She scowled.

“Accomplishments? You’re better at Greek than your brother.”

“Don’t be like that, darling. I can translate Herodotus with skill and finesse, but the company finds that dreadfully dull by way of entertainment. From what Aunt Martha writes, the level of musical instruction on offer in Boston is quite high, by American standards. Good enough for me at the moment, since I’ve had hardly any music lessons these past few years.”

“Music. So you’re to be _entertaining_.” The bitterness did seep out, though Miss Hooper tried valiantly to contain it.

“Well, yes. They have quite an active social season, and Uncle is very well-connected. I shall be expected to attend the balls, of course.” Her eyes gleamed.

“Balls? I had no idea you were interested in balls.” Though she _had_ known. Emelia loved society, much more than she herself did. She only shunned it for Molly. (Molly could be honest in her own thoughts, at least.)

Emilia sighed. Then she said, “Molly, we’re not children anymore. We can’t pretend forever.”

Ah. She ought to have known. “Pretend?”

“That neither of us need tolerate the life our parents have planned for us. That I’ll be a pirate, and you’ll be a doctor.”

Molly hadn’t known Emelia viewed her stern ambition as a mere girlish fantasy on a par with her own, so she allowed a moment, before speaking, for the knife to finish twisting in her heart. Her mouth twisted, too, and where she knew a sensible person would look _defiant_ and _determined_ , she managed only _tremulous_. “I _will_ be a doctor.” At least she managed to hold Emelia’s eyes.

Emelia only smiled sadly, and a little indulgently. “Just as you say, dear,” she said. “And I shall be a wife.”

Molly also hadn’t known her friend could be cruel.

***

Friends do forgive one another, though. Molly did not magically develop the ability to resist Emelia’s glinting smile, simply because she’d been grievously hurt by her. Moreover, she was not a person who gave her affection lightly, or her loyalty either, and neither did she revoke them except in the direst extreme. They finished the term together, and if Molly’s self-contained reserve was sometimes more pronounced than it had been, well, one needs to wrap up tightly around the edges of a ragged heart.

There were no more quarrels or confrontations. The summer passed - not _uneventfully_ , of course, as Emelia was in a flurry of preparations, but peaceably enough between the two girls. Molly had made her peace with her friend’s inevitable departure, and consented to take part in discussions about travel and packing with something between willingness and resignment. She did not consider that she had an alternative.

Emelia, for her part, seemed possessed of a strange energy. She flung herself into practical plans with a single-minded devotion, but nervously shunned those quiet moments and honest conversations she and Molly had been used to enjoy. She was a bundle of activity, of _doing,_ where before she had been active, but always thoughtful.

Molly, seeing this, did not press her to discuss her feelings. At any rate, Emelia had made her views quite clear.

***

In this way, August came upon them. The night before Emelia was to sail, Molly slept at her house. The trunks were packed and dispatched to the station, her travelling clothes were laid out. There were no more preparations to be made. It was to be their last evening together, and neither knew when they would ever see one another again.

They did not speak of it at first. Emelia’s ceaseless energy from the past months seemed suddenly to have subsided, or died out, with nothing more to sustain it. For the whole evening, she darted little glances at her friend, with something like her old pensiveness. Molly returned her looks, but did not ask about them, and Emelia did not speak.

Their silence lasted until they went up to bed - early, for it was to be an early start. They washed and prepared for bed, the heavy silence drawing tight between them. Molly shrugged inwardly and settled beneath the covers.

Emelia sat herslf tentatively, on the edge of the bed. She gave her friend a long, long look.

Molly sighed. Part of her wished to avoid conversation altogether, while another part of her wished to talk all night, and that the night would never end. She could not expect this to be easy.“Well, dear? You’ve been looking at me strangely all evening.”

“I’ve been memorising you.” Emelia was quite, quite solemn.

Molly smiled, in spite of herself. “I memorised you a long time ago.” It was true.

“You did?” She bit her lip. “Shall you miss me, then?”

“Shall I - ?” Molly stared at her in amazement. “Shall I _miss you_? Are you in earnest, Em?”

“Well, yes. You haven’t said much about it, all this time.”

“I did not imagine you wanted to know. You were so...busy.”

“I was, wasn’t I. I did not find it entirely pleasant, thinking. It felt best to avoid it.” Her dark hair, never completely willing to be contained in a braid, fell around her face and obscured her expression. "I have made my choice, dear. But it's sitting heavily on my heart tonight."

Molly made herself speak sense. “But darling, this is exciting, you said it yourself. This is what you want, is it not?”

“Yes…”

“No, enough of that. It is nerves, nothing more. You will stand on the deck of the ship and you will remember why you wanted this so desperately. It is only the leaving that will be difficult. The _being gone_ will be easy.” Molly felt the truth of this. It _was_ true, for Emelia. The _being left_ was not going to be so easy, but they were not talking about Molly.

Emelia only looked at her some more, and said nothing for a long moment. She often saw what Molly did not say, or had, in the old days. Some of the same perception crept into her look now. “You shall miss me, then.”

“Yes.”

A small hesitation. Then, “But _why_? I’ve been rather dreadful to you since this whole matter arose.”

 _Yes_. “It’s not your fault, Em. I don’t blame you.”

“You’re a kind, kind friend, Mol. And I am most _un_ kind, because I am _glad_ you shall miss me. I know it pains you, and I don’t want to pain you, but I am glad all the same.” Only Emelia could look mischievous and contrite at the same time.

Molly began to smile. “You’re dreadful.”

“I am. You shan’t miss _that_ , I daresay.” There was some uncertainty behind the humour, Molly was sure of it.

“I shall. I’ll miss everything about you.”

“Everything?” Emelia crept closer, settling more firmly on the bed, gathering her legs up onto the coverlet.

“Everything.” Molly allowed herself to grin at her friend. “Everything from the curls of your dear head to the tips of your toes.”

Emelia giggled. “My _toes_?” She stuck them out from under the hem of her nightdress and wiggled them. “My toes?”

Impulsively, Molly swept forward and gathered her friend’s feet up in both her hands. “Your toes,” she declared. “Your dear, pretty toes. I shall miss them.” And she bent and planted a kiss - _one, two_ \- on top of each long foot.

They were both giddy now, and Molly didn't think it was only her own mirth that was tinged with desperation. Emelia giggled again and lay herself down on top of the blankets, smiling at Molly from the pillow. “You silly thing.” Her face was a little flushed. “What else shall you miss?”

“Your knees.” And she kissed each knee, through the filmy fabric of the nightdress. “And your hands.” And she pressed a kiss on the back of each hand, then turned them over and kissed each dear palm as well. She lingered on the last one, and Emelia’s fingertips caressed her face as she pulled away.

Some of her hilarity took on a warmer quality, and her breath caught. Somehow, she wanted this game to continue.

So, apparently, did Emelia. She lay back, her hair already flying free of her braid and lying in a dark cloud on her pillow. Her lips were slightly parted, and there was a flush in her cheeks. “What of...my face?” Her voice seemed a little breathless.

“Yes, your face as well.” Molly bent and kissed each cheek, lingering for the feel of the petal-soft skin. “And your eyes, though they are always full of mischief.” She cupped her friend’s face in her two hands, and laid two gentle kisses on her fluttering lids.

They paused like that a moment, Molly’s fingers resting lightly on the dewy skin of Emelia’s face and neck, her lips hovering over her friend’s eyes. These last remained closed, and Em leaned up into the other girl’s touch. Her mouth was red, and plump, and damp with her quick little panting breaths. Molly stared at that mouth, for once not curled in a smile, and thought there was nothing on earth that could be more lovely. This suddenly did not feel like a game.

Her own eyes fell closed. “Your mouth.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“My mouth?” Emelia’s voice was the merest breath. Her tongue peeked out over her bottom lip for a moment, leaving it glistening. “Shall you…?”

“Yes.” And Molly bent, and kissed her friend’s mouth.

There were no words for the kind of heat that came into their bellies at this kiss. There were no words for the shining in their eyes as their mouths at last came apart and they shared their breath for a moment. There had always been kisses and pettings between them, always, and it was easy for them to tell themselves that this was only that sort of kiss, because what else could it be? They were girls together, that was all.

 _That is not all._ Molly knew it, it was a fact, it was a _truth_. But she did not know what to call it, and more importantly, she did not want it to stop. And if they cloaked it as merely another girlish intimacy, perhaps it would not be wrong for it to continue.

So she said, though it wrung her heart, “Only think. The next person to kiss your mouth like that will be your husband.” And she smiled, and it was almost only the fond smile of a friend.

Emelia’s eyes were still shining at her. “You’d best do it again, then. It will be a long while before that happens.” And she lifted her head and they were kissing again, soft mouth to soft mouth, and the spikes of warmth that ran through their bodies could be safely ignored, since there was no name for them, and when one plump mouth parted to admit a delicate tongue, there was no word either, for the way they gasped and clung to one another.

Their hands, too, quested, to discover what other innocent touches they’d been ignorant of thus far. Faces were explored, cupped and stroked and tilted, and hair brushed back from flushed brows. Necks, throats, shoulders, and when their fingertips met, they twined together, and Molly raised Em’s hands over her head and let their fingers tangle on the pillow as she leaned in and further deepened the kiss.

When she unwound her fingers and released her friend’s hand, Emelia left her arms above her head, and then it was natural for Molly to run her hands down Em’s long arms, and then it was inevitable that her fingers would brush the sides of her breasts, small and uncorseted, and then Emelia gasped and arched into her hand and it was all so _lovely_ that she had to kiss again, and touch again.

“Is it all right, dear? You’re so lovely, it feels so good to touch you. Is it all right? Does it feel...does it feel nice for you as well?”

In answer, Emelia lifted her arms off the pillow and brought a hand to Molly’s breast as well, squeezing gently and circling her palm over the hardening nipple. “ _Oh,”_ she gasped. “I see, I do. You feel lovely as well. Molly. Oh, Molly, you’re just beautiful. Yes, do, touch me, it’s all right. It’s all right.”

And indeed, it was hard to see how there could be any harm in it at all, for all that the panting breaths and arching bodies were certainly somewhat...indecorous, to say the least. But they were friends, intimate friends, and they would be parting in the morning. It was only to be expected that there should be caresses and high emotions.

No, no one would raise any eyebrows over these innocent touches, were they ever to know, which they wouldn’t in any case, for this was private, between girls.

So they lay on the bed and kissed, and stroked gentle hands over each other’s breasts, and gasped under one another’s touch. They squeezed and fondled, and it was Emelia who first thought of kissing down Molly’s neck and closing her lips around a pert nipple, through the cool fabric of her nightdress. Molly cried out under the contact, and they both froze (but why, if this was so innocent?), but nobody came, and Molly thrust her breast towards her friend’s mouth and asked her breathlessly to do it again.

When Molly took her turn to kiss at Em’s breast through her night clothes, with her hands squeezing and kneading and gathering the warm flesh, the better to bury her face in it, Emelia’s body positively writhed under her touch. Her head was thrown back on the pillow, her hair in wild disarray, and her pelvis was moving in desperate little thrusts, of which she seemed completely unaware.

A turn, a roll of bodies, and Molly was lying on top of Emelia, and their hips aligned, and the next little thrust brought them together in a way that thrilled Molly and at the same time filled her with a nameless terror. She stiffened, and saw that Emelia, too, was looking wide-eyed and shocked.

For the space of several heartbeats, they did not move, only stared at each other with stricken expressions, bodies taut and the air thick with doubt and alarm.

It was Molly who recovered first, so anxious was she to soothe her friend. She eased her body to the side and placed the lightest little kiss on her brow, brushing the wild hair back and smiling valiantly. Under her gentle caresses - of the familiar kind, not like these alien new touches that thrilled and frightened - Emelia settled down, the tension leached out of her, and she was able to return her friend’s smile.

It became important to make this...smaller. To contain it in some way. It had suddenly felt so...large. Momentous. Formless and terrifying, and altogether unguessed-at. Uncontrollable.

So Molly talked, and with her words she diminished the nameless feeling that had threatened them. She tucked it away like the tendrils of Emelia’s uncivilised hair. “There, dear, there. It’s over. We’ll stop. You’re lovely, that’s all, and I’m unhappy. I shall miss you, as I said. It, it overwhelmed me. And you as well, I think. You’re exhausted, poor dear, you’ve been anxious about this journey for so long. We’re both emotional. That’s all.”

_That’s all._

And soon that _was_ all, and they tucked themselves under the covers and into one another’s arms, relieved to be back in the familiar realm of chaste touches that did not set their hearts racing nor their blood stirring. Molly smoothed away the last wayward lock of dark hair, kissed her sweetly on the forehead, and watched her eyes fall closed.

“Molly.” A murmur, on the edge of sleep.

“Mmm?”

“I shall miss you, too.” Her breathing evened out, and she was asleep.

Molly lay awake a long time, the doctor in her cataloguing the heat in her skin and the heart rate that took several long minutes to subside, as well as the slick feeling between her legs that she finally dared to test - barely a touch, a hand tucked under her nightdress, the tip of one finger dipping in, her own startled intake of breath at the hot spike of pleasure and a swift, immediate withdrawal.

And some other part of her took careful note of the specific weight and import of her beautiful Emelia, slumbering warm in her arms, her hair already shaking loose again, who would be leaving in the morning.

It was a long time before she slept.

The next morning they were shy with each other, and a little formal, and they shook hands carefully before Emelia climbed into the cab that would take her to the train that would carry her to the port, where she would board a ship and steam away across an ocean.

**Author's Note:**

> I appreciate when people let me know - gently - that I've made a typo or (gasp) grammatical error. Please feel free.  
> I appreciate it in an entirely different and vastly superior way when people leave me comments.


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